


show me how to find my place (to love the world as it remains)

by wearenotsaints



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Watcher Entertainment RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, F/M, M/M, Other, a lot of people die and it was hard to write, and mourning, instead of covid we have the undead, its the apocalypse, lots of death, there is some sexy stuff in here but its not as graphic as the zombie killing, this is handsdown the longest thing ive written, this is how ive been coping for the past three months, time jumps distinguished by BEFORE and AFTER
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:49:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27804079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearenotsaints/pseuds/wearenotsaints
Summary: It happens sometimes— he’s seen it before— the way they get caught in loops, walking through motions that remind him they were human once. That to a less hardened person might invoke some kind of sympathy. Sympathy will only get you killed these days. Still, Shane hates when it's kids. At least none of them seem new enough to be Screechers. He can’t fucking stand Screechers. They’re significantly faster and stronger, bodies more animated in their relentless quest for something with fresh blood and a heartbeat.“Fuck,” he grits out between clenched teeth before reaching to unholster his weapon. The nails at the tip of the bat are rusted from wear and the numerous bodily fluids it’s come into contact with but it regularly gets the job done. His fingers wrap familiarly around the grip tape and he’s contemplating the best place to start cleaning up when an ear piercing shriek reverberates through the still air. It’s coming from the direction of the house Sara and Ryan are currently scavenging. “God fucking damn it!”—(or: The completely selfserving Zombie AU no one asked for during this global pandemic)
Relationships: Adam Bianchi/Annie Jeong, Andrew Ilnyckyj/Steven Lim, Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej, Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej/Sara Rubin, Shane Madej/Sara Rubin
Kudos: 9





	show me how to find my place (to love the world as it remains)

**Author's Note:**

> The working title of this is "Zombie Nonsense (But With F E E L I N G). 
> 
> Everyday, I think about the wonderful fic that is Theory Number 7 and how deeply it crushed and inspired me. Please check it out if you havent. I'm a slut for any zombie content so this is mostly a love letter to that genre. This has been sitting in my googledocs at 20k words and I got tired of looking at it so I'm posting this first part with the hope that it motivates me to finish it. 
> 
> Any suggestions or input is always highly valued! 
> 
> Title from A Couple Days by Valley Maker (there is a 14 hr playlist on my Spotify specifically for this monstrosity; holler if you want the link)

BEFORE

_“We’re a young country...We’ll go through some stuff, I feel it coming”_ — Shane Madej

AFTER

The sun hangs bright in the open blue of the sky, casting long shadows over the dusty stretch of the cul de sac laid out before him. Shane leans heavily onto his forearms over the handlebars of his bike, squinting against the harsh glare of sunlight. There’s sweat beading at his hairline and the back of his neck, the hefty weight of the baseball bat resting across his shoulder blades is a solid comfort. He widens his stance astride the bike's body before reaching up with one hand to adjust the dirty scrap of fabric he’s been using as a headband. Once he’s secured it back in place, Shane does another sweep of the street to make sure the count is still the same. 

There’s four of them in total. Two at the far end, swaying slightly as they stare out into the vast swath of trees butting up along the neighborhood’s end. Shane can’t tell if they’re watching anything in particular or just existing in that limbo state between waiting for prey and hunting. It doesn’t fucking matter either way, as long as he’s not the one they set their sights on. The other two are smaller and closer to the mouth of the street where Shane is perched on lookout duty. They’re bouncing a ball back and forth between them in a steady rhythm and Shane shudders involuntarily. 

It happens sometimes— he’s seen it before— the way they get caught in loops, walking through motions that remind him they were human once. That to a less hardened person might invoke some kind of sympathy. Sympathy will only get you killed these days. Still, Shane hates when it's kids. At least none of them seem new enough to be Screechers. He can’t fucking stand Screechers. They’re significantly faster and stronger, bodies more animated in their relentless quest for something with fresh blood and a heartbeat. 

“Fuck,” he grits out between clenched teeth before reaching to unholster his weapon. The nails at the tip of the bat are rusted from wear and the numerous bodily fluids it’s come into contact with but it regularly gets the job done. His fingers wrap familiarly around the grip tape and he’s contemplating the best place to start cleaning up when an ear piercing shriek reverberates through the still air. It’s coming from the direction of the house Sara and Ryan are currently scavenging. “God _fucking_ damn it!”

Shane whirls around at the second scream, heartbeat thudding wildly in his ears and adrenaline pumping through his veins. Out of his peripheral, he can see the blue rubber ball roll towards the gutter at the same moment he hears the growling start. 

BEFORE

It’s a random Saturday in March and Shane is sprawled out lengthwise across the couch in his and Sara’s apartment. Sara is quietly puttering around the kitchen, making tea and scrounging through the cupboards for an accompanying snack. Shane closes his eyes, listens to the quiet clink of a spoon against ceramic and when he opens them again Sara is smiling fondly down at him with a mug stretched out in front of his face. He hums happily and offers a quiet thanks before taking the offered cup, scooting up a bit to allow Sara space to settle in beside him. 

Obi lifts his head from his perch on the back of the couch and lets out a quiet _merow_ of hello. Sara scratches at the soft fur of his chin and it’s comfortable stillness for another stretch of time. The National record Shane put on earlier pipes softly through the speakers across the room. The moment is shattered by the loud refrain of the Ghostbusters theme song emanating from Shane’s phone. He grins at the display of Ryan’s wild eyed caller ID photo for a moment before clicking accept and pressing the phone to his ear. 

“Are you watching the news?” Ryan asks in lieu of a greeting, his tone sharp and laced with panic. Shane sits up a little straighter and instinctively reaches for the remote. There must be a look on his face because Sara quirks an eyebrow and motions for him to put it on speaker. He complies and drops his phone into his lap, his other hand flicking through the TV guide to find the appropriate news station. Later, he’ll realise it wouldn’t have mattered what station he chose, they were all broadcasting the same thing. 

“Got it on now. You’re on speaker, Sara’s here,” Shane says absently, eyes glued to the screen. 

“They’re saying it’s some kind of super virus originating somewhere in China. The government’s closing borders and effecting mandatory shutdowns across states,” Ryan’s voice sounds tinny over the line and Shane doesn’t have to be looking at him to know how Ryan’s probably curled in on himself right now. “We’re not supposed to leave our homes except for emergencies and even then,” his voice cuts out briefly on a ragged inhale. “You need some kind of paperwork.”

“Ah yes, that emergency paperwork everyone’s got just lying around their humble abode,” Shane jokes, trying for some kind of humor. But Ryan isn’t laughing and Sara hasn’t pulled her gaze away from the TV. “I’m sure it’s just a precaution. We’ll get through this in no time,” Shane continues but it sounds thin even to his own ears. 

Ryan and Sara still don’t respond and they all remain there in abject unease for a very long time. 

AFTER

He dispatches the kids first. Bat arching down into snapping maws, teeth and slug grey brain matter arching across the pavement at his feet. Shane doesn’t get nauseous at the sight of gore anymore—seeing how it’s a luxury they can’t afford—but he doesn’t think he’ll ever come to terms with the swirling rush of disgust and glee when the bat connects with a sweet spot on its target. 

The two Shamblers at the end of the street have gotten closer, reaching towards him with gnarled fingers outstretched. Shane closes the distance between them with a loping stride. He moves more nimbly than he ever did pre-apocalypse; has gotten quicker out of necessity and a desire to keep himself and the others alive. The screams from the house are still ringing through the street and Shane knows that as capable as Ryan and Sara are, if they don’t kill that Screecher in the next two minutes, they’re going to have a serious problem. 

“Come at me, _bro_ ,” Shane hisses, spinning deftly behind the closest Shambler and kicking out to catch it in the back of its knees. It trips forward onto all fours and Shane brings the bat into the back of its head with a satisfying crunch. While trying to wrench the bat free, he senses the proximity of the second one over his shoulder, its claws raking against the worn fabric of his flannel. He relinquishes his grip on the maple wood where the first creature’s skull fragments hold stubbornly to its modified end. He crouches down, hoping to send it off balance while unsheathing the blade hidden in his boot. Lunging upwards when the Shambler does little more than totter back a step, Shane twists and drives the blade of his Frontiersman into its brain through the rotted flesh below its chin. The body drops, twitches twice before stilling and Shane heaves his primary weapon free to make a mad dash towards where the screaming has finally ceased. 

The front door crashes open just as Shane reaches the bottom step. Sara is propping Ryan up against her side and the door frame, gritting her teeth with the effort because it would be Ryan’s style to put on more muscle during the fucking apoloclypse. They’re both splattered with dark black ichor and Ryan’s got a jagged cut running bright blood from his cheek, but no other visible wounds seem present. 

_No bites,_ Shane thinks frantically, _please,_ fuck _, don’t let there be any bites_. They can’t take another loss, not so soon after the last one. 

“Came out of fuck all _nowhere_ ,” Sara explains as Shane lumbers up the steps to share Ryan’s weight between them. “We did a check and everything! But of course the dinky ass laundry room was the place we missed. Distracted by the fucking pantry…” 

She trails off in a huff and there will be time to debrief later, to feel guilty and angry at the oversight, but right now they need to move. Screechers are like a beacon when they get going and Shane’s still not sure how long that one was wailing for. He hurries them in the direction of their bikes and Ryan lets out a low chuckle when Sara whistles at the mess Shane’s made of their other company. 

“Yeah, yeah, we’re all impressed with ol ‘All Star’ Madej. There’ll be odes and everything, but let’s go gang,” He presses forward, tipping Ryan against his own bike frame and hoists the dufflebag Ryan was carrying onto his back, maneuvering the bat through the bottom of the straps. “You good for it, Bergara?”

Ryan grunts his agreement and only wobbles slightly before they start moving. Sara takes the lead, Shane bringing up the rear. Her backpack which is bulkier than when they started out bobs with the momentum of her pedaling. Shane hones in on it because otherwise he’ll fixate on Ryan and overanalyze every bit of him; searching and rechecking to make sure everything’s fine. That Ryan is still there despite the blood and the way his smile hadn’t quite reached his eyes. Behind them, from the dense thicket of woods, echoes a cacophony of animalistic howls. 

Shane leans up tall and pedals faster. 

BEFORE

The toilet paper is the first thing to go. Shane isn’t really surprised; he’s a nihilist at heart so he already expects the worst from people. He’s just mad they hadn’t gone to the store sooner. 

“67 dollars for 20 rolls?” Sara shrieks over the top of her laptop, voice raising even higher after she discovers that despite displaying as in stock, the moment she gets to check out, the toilet paper is suddenly unavailable. “Kay thanks! I hate it!”

Shane snickers from the kitchen where he’s making chicken fajitas. Obi twines between his legs and mews forlornly as though he’s never been properly fed a day in his life. 

“Might have been true before, buddy,” Shane says, directing his voice down to where Obi has let out a particularly pitiful sound. “But you know damn well you’re the prince of this castle and you definitely eat like one.”

Obi’s ear twitches minutely and then he leaps onto the counter. Shane shouts and tries to flail at Obi to get down without either of them getting burned when Sara appears pale faced in the doorway. 

“What—” Shane starts but Sara doesn’t let him finish.

“I think toilet paper is the least of our worries,” she whispers, eyes so, so wide. “The dead are coming back.”

Shane really wishes the worst of it had just been the fucking lack of toilet paper. 

AFTER

The old library they’ve fortified into some kind of home base looms into sight, silhouetted against the sunlight. Shane doesn’t think he’s been this happy to see it since they first made it here three months ago. Here being Oregon, two hours south of Portland, and despite the fact that they never really stay anywhere long, he blames it on the Pacific Northwest’s idyllic swell of summer. 

The three of them had ventured further out today, crossing through the wasteland of this small town’s main street and into the sprawl of the neighborhood beyond. It’s been safer than the big cities they fought through before; infinitely safer than LA. More people equals more undead. Shane doesn’t miss it in the slightest. 

Sara hops off her bike as soon as they’ve rounded the back of the building, dismounting gracefully and easing the doors of the shed open to usher them inside. Ryan teeters slightly but maintains his balance enough that Shane stops mid-reach for him. Sara loops the chain lock through the wheels and frames of their bikes while Shane keeps watch at the shed's entrance. He can’t shake the feeling that something followed them home. But the long stretch of the driveway stays clear and the only sound remains the birds flitting through the wildness of the library’s overgrown garden beds. It had existed before they claimed it, some kind of community project, though there’s significantly less community to care for it nowadays. Shane feels like they’re doing a decent job of maintaining it and the fresh produce is a welcome relief from the canned blandness they’ve been enduring. 

“All set?” He asks when Sara appears at his elbow, leaning into him briefly with Ryan at her back. Sara, unlike Shane, does not stop herself from reaching out to loop an arm around Ryan’s waist, supporting him again as they hobble to the brick archway at the back entrance. Shane quickly snaps the lock on the shed into place and does one more sweep as he trails them. He raps his knuckles in a quick beat against the wooden frame: _shave and a haircut_. 

“Two bits.” Ryan singsongs deliriously as the door swings outward to reveal Adam behind it. The sunlight gleams briefly off his lenses but even the thick frames do little to hide the bags below his eyes; the unkempt tangle of his auburn beard and hair lends to the disheveled air. His smile— blink and you’ll miss it— fades when he catches proper sight of them. 

“Copacetic?” Adam asks while stepping back into the shadows to let them in. 

“Somewhat,” Shane grunts, “Four Shamblers and a Screecher, but the hauls good.” 

Adam nods and snags a finger through the loop of Sara’s backpack, tugging briefly before she shrugs out of it without complaint. She’d normally bite anyone’s head off for even suggesting she needs help with the weight but Shane reckons she’s preoccupied with getting Ryan off his feet. She certainly doesn’t pause as she hustles Ryan towards the closest bathroom.

Shane tosses Ryan’s bag down in the staff kitchen just off the hallway, being careful not to snag the bat against the back of his legs. Adam sets Sara’s backpack on the counter and starts unpacking it. 

“Here,” he says in that soft way he hasn’t lost and motions over his shoulder at the duffle. “I’ve got it. Jake will wanna know. He’s in the children’s wing.”

Shane claps a hand on Adam’s shoulder in thanks and slips out into the low dark of the hall. Built sometime in the early 1900’s, the library is an impressive four floors with high ceilings and massive windows to let any and all sunlight in. It’s easily the most architecturally remarkable building in the town. It also seems the most historically important, apocalypse or no. They’d boarded up all the downstairs windows early on so Shane makes his way to the back stairwell in inky shadow. There’s a grand mahogany staircase at the front which he imagines caught the light of the even grander chandelier back when there was electricity full time, but this way is faster. 

He finds Jake and Quinta lounging across the bean bags reading to Silas. Kate must be trying to sleep or wandering the isles at the back of the wing. Though Shane doesn’t hear shuffling which means it’s probably the former. She hasn’t fully come back to them since TJ’s death but she’s trying, for Silas at least. 

“Jake...” Shane keeps his voice low so as not to spook them in case the deliberate drag of his boots against the carpet wasn’t warning enough. Jake’s head whips up and something sharp startles across his face before he schools it into neutral. Shane winces involuntarily. It’s the same tone he used after TJ and _Jesus Christ_. 

“Ryan’s not dead,” He states firmly and if he was, Shane thinks Jake knows him well enough to know Shane wouldn’t be anything but on the floor under the weight of it. “He got banged up on the run. Sara’s patching him up in the bathroom downstairs.”

Jake lets out this huge breath and hoists Silas from his lap to Quinta’s. Silas makes grabby hands after him and Jake stoops to kiss his forehead. He straightens his shoulders as he approaches Shane. The tension rolling off him is almost enough to send Shane back a step. 

“You coming?” Jake asks, voice stronger but his face looks colorless under his tanned skin. 

Shane considers it but shakes his head. There’s a tightening behind his ribs, the deeply familiar tug to be at Ryan’s side— as habitual as breathing— but he doesn’t think Ryan would appreciate the three of them crowding around. 

“I’ll catch up in a bit,” he says, swallowing down the ache, and moves to join Quinta and Silas while Jake’s footsteps recede behind him. 

BEFORE

Ryan gloats, because of fucking course he does. He is right after all. The supernatural is real and Shane can suck it. If zombies exist, then why not ghosts?

Shane would take a hundred thousand ghosts if it meant he never had to see a _zombie_. 

The first one he encounters is their neighbor, Mrs. Richards. He’s coming back from the mailroom because all the internet articles keep talking about sticking to some kind of routine and Shane doesn’t know how they’re still getting mail when he can hardly take a walk around the block, but hey, he’s trying. He’s in the stairwell because the power keeps cutting out and the last thing he wants is to be trapped in an elevator when he hears the guttural wheeze coming from the upper landing. 

“Hello?” He calls out in what he will later understand is an absolutely trash move. The wheezing gets louder, more urgent somehow, combining with the heavy footsteps of someone running. Shane is between the third and fourth floor with two more flights to go before home and he’s frozen like a deer in the headlights. There’s a flash of white nightgown and grey hair and then something is crashing into his chest. Shane’s arms windmill wildly as he tips backwards at the collision and drops three stairs. The nauseating plunge of falling is abruptly halted when his ridiculously long arm tangles between rungs of the railing and wrenches him into a half sprawl against it. His attacker isn’t so lucky. The person clears the last of the stairs and skids into the far wall at an angel. There is the sickening snap of bones breaking and Shane is about to spin into freaking out over accidentally killing one of the apartment’s tenants, when the person snarls and starts getting to their feet. “What the ever loving _fuck_?”

Shane gasps, because he saw that fall, he heard that neck break, there is no way _anyone_ is walking— let alone breathing— after that. But this person, who his brain has helpfully identified as Mrs. Richards is getting some footing under herself and coming at him. He’s seen horror movies, hundreds of them at this point; it’s impossible to be best friends with Ryan Bergara and not. Nevertheless, Shane’s mind isn’t cooperating about the whole encountering zombies outside the silver screen thing. There’s no fucking way Mrs. Richards is a flesh and blood hungry ghoul. Not Mrs. Richards, who feeds Obi when they’re out of town, makes the best chocolate chip cookies in the complex, and whose grandson is a big time Unsolved fan. Shane’s met him and everything. 

_She’s most likely done PCP or bath salts or_ something, Shane thinks hysterically, still plastered to the banister, unmoving. Mrs. Richards on the other hand is moving very quickly, jaws unhinging and snapping shut furiously. She’s on Shane in seconds with her mouth dangerously close to taking off his nose and he thrusts up to push her back with a hand to the center of her chest. For the first time in a long time he’s grateful to be in possession of so much limb. Shane frantically reaches out with his other hand into the mess of mail where his fingers close around the glossy Art magazine that came for Sara. He’s glad the ridiculous thing is so thick. He bends it in half and slams it into Mrs. Richards' gaping mouth. She bites down _hard_ ; Shane barely gets his fingers out of the way. With his hand now free, he grasps her shoulders and angles them both against the railing. 

Shane’s acting on panic fueled instinct at this point, merely desperate to get the fuck away from this whole encounter and find out what the actual hell is happening from the safety of his apartment. Which is why it makes perfect sense to shift his grip on Mrs. Richards and pitch her sideways over the open expanse of the stairwell. It is a goddamn miracle he doesn't go tumbling after her. He is however, caught over the side with the railing digging into his ribs, so he sees and hears the body connect headfirst with the concrete landing three stories below. Her skull caves in with a wet squelch of brackish brown blood before the rest of her body crumbles into itself and the floor. The sick fluid begins to pool out and Shane retches hard before pulling himself away from the sight. After the trembling subsides slightly and he’s peeked over the railing to be sure Mrs. Richards won't be coming back for round two, he hauls himself to his feet and sprints the remaining steps to his floor. 

He crashes into the apartment where Sara finds him fumbling with the deadbolt. His fingers are shaking too damn hard to be useful. 

“Shane?” Sara’s voice is steady but her eyes get huge when Shane turns to face her. 

“I just killed Mrs. Richards,” He pants, “And we need to leave. Like immediately.”

So yeah. Zombies are a thing now; the supernatural exists. 

Ryan doesn’t end up gloating for very long. 

AFTER

Shane doesn’t see Ryan again until after dinner. He spends the time searching for different distractions against the onslaught of helplessness raging in his chest. He reads to Silas using funny voices ripped straight from the Hot Doga and pointedly ignores Quinta’s inquizzative gaze. She must get tired of him pretending he’s not rattled because she kicks him out halfway through the Wizard of Oz. He goes to sulk on the roof but Andrew and Steven are up there on lookout duty and as much as Shane enjoys their energy, he’d just like to be alone. They seem to pick up on his mood— they had to have seen the three of them coming back— because Andrew shoves the sniper rifle at him and steers Steven away with a hand on his elbow. 

“See you in a bit!” Steven calls cheerily, “I’m making chili!”

Andrew pretends to gag and Shane cracks a half smile. Steven isn’t actually that bad of a cook, he’s certainly developed a knack for making a little go a long way. He’s been experimenting a lot with the different produce from the garden and the majority of it is delicious and filling. Enough to make them forget, at least for a little while, that they’re in the middle of an apocalypse. 

Shane uses the scope on the rifle to watch the treeline, the deadscape of main street and the dip of hills and fields past that. Nothing moves besides windblow trash and some shutters on a house a couple streets down. He closes his eyes and tips his head back towards the sky, counts back from 20 and opens them again. The shadows are growing longer with the setting sun, the sky streaked with pinks and golds. The moon has already revealed itself, hanging heavy and clear, almost full. He’s been teaching Silas about the constellations to counter the zodiac nonsense Quinta and Ryan keep spouting. Silas just laughs happily at all of them, content on the attention in true four year old fashion. Shane watches the sky until he can find the Big Dipper and then heads inside. He considers coming back once they’ve all eaten. 

Obi and Micki are sitting on the top step when Shane comes in from the roof. He almost trips over Micki’s long sausage body and catches himself just in time to keep from toppling head long down the stairs. 

“Ya’ll!” Shane shrieks at the pair of them. Micki just wags her tail while Obi chirps happily. Shane seriously has no idea how they have kept three domesticated animals away from zombie clutches but here they are. Dori is most likely with Ryan and Jake as she gets protective when one of them is injured or upset. It’s another weird comfort, another reminder of normalcy, like Sara’s laughter or finding a book he read in high school on one of the shelves. Simple things that make the rest of it tolerable. Obi kills rats in the basement and leaves parts of them around only 30 percent of the time. Micki and Dori bark at unfamiliar sounds but have an uncanny ability to remain quiet in the presence of the undead. Shane wonders if it’s a self preservation thing, just another way to stay alive in a world that reeks of death and decay. 

They follow him to the candle lit kitchen where the low murmur of voices floats out into the hall. Steven is at the stove, Andrew plastered to his side in the comfortable way they slot together. Shane smiles because he remembers when Andrew used to hold himself back. Quinta greets him from the table with a cheery wave before falling back into conversation with Adam and Kate. Kate’s eating today and Shane notices how the shake of her hands has lessened when she spoons half of hers into Silas’s bowl. It’s slow, but it’s progress. 

“Hey stranger,” Sara says, materializing at his elbow and Shane takes in her weary appearance but she’s smiling softly.

“Hey yourself,” He answers before leaning down to press a kiss to her temple. “Ryan doing okay?”

Sara nods and stays leaned against him until Steven offers them bowls. Shane wants to ask where Ryan is but Jake shows up long enough to collect two portions and refill Ryan’s hydroflask at the cooler in the corner. He disappears before Shane can ask if he needs any help. 

Shane eats quickly and tells Sara he’ll find her later when he’s done with the second round of rooftop watch. The last vestiges of adrenaline hum beneath the surface of his skin, searing like a brand, and he figures he wouldn't be able to sleep even if he wanted to. Fear is a funny thing now; an all consuming constant that spikes and flares in intervals, never fully dissipating for longer than seconds at a time. Shane likes to pretend he’s okay with it if only to try and trick himself into believing it’s true. 

He’s sprawled across the roof’s raised ledge. One leg on the inside, the other bent at the knee, boot pressing firmly into the brick for stability. He’s practicing knots with a coil of rope that unfurls across his chest and the side of the building, the movements soothing in their repetition. Sara keeps pointing out how easy it would be for him to fall to his death if something startled him but Shane merely laughs and mentions how the flower beds would make a nice landing pad. 

The door to the roof opens slowly and Shane swings himself into a seated position as Ryan limps out. He’s got a baseball cap crammed backwards on his head to keep his hair out of his eyes and he’s heavily favoring his right side but otherwise seems alright. He offers a tight smile and waves Shane off when he makes to stand.

“Got it,” Ryan grunts, dropping down next to Shane on the ledge with a heavy sigh. Shane drapes an arm over Ryan’s broad shoulders to tuck him into his side before pressing his cheek to the top of Ryan’s head. Ryan hums and pats him on the knee, leaves his hand there with its familiar weight grounding Shane in place. 

“Missed you,” Shane mumbles and his throat tightens up over the admission. Is he really about to cry? Ryan is alive and warm against him and Shane is going to fucking pieces. Losing people is a hard fact of life now, always hovering at the edges like a twin to fear and Shane hopes he never grows indifferent to it. Never reaches a place where he wakes up one day and everyone’s gone and he isn’t surprised. He squeezes Ryan tighter and tries to breathe. 

“Such a softy,” Ryan gripes but his tone is light and he leans harder into Shane. “Missed you too, big guy. We’re okay though. Gonna take more than a Screecher to get me away from you.”

“Came close though,” Shane replies. “Let’s try not to do that again.”

“Will do my best. Always do.”

Shane wants to argue the point a little more but Ryan’s proximity is counteracting the anxiety flooding his veins. Exhaustion sweeps through him like a wave and Shane sags a bit against Ryan’s steady frame. Ryan thankfully doesn’t mention it and they sit for a while longer, until Adam shows up to shoo them off to bed. 

BEFORE

They get to Ryan before he can get to them. Shane doesn’t know if it’s luck or pure coincidence but he isn’t going to complain. The phone lines are jammed, no calls coming in or out— not even when Shane tries calling out of state— and the traffic piles up around them. Sara drives because Shane has _a thing_ about cars, but even if he was willing to drive he doesn't feel very capable right now. 

So he’s got Obi crushed to his chest, cursing at the incessant beeping of the busy signal coming from his phone, when Sara breathlessly asks him where they’re going. He says Ryan’s automatically and tries to send a text. It reads ‘not delivered’ and Shane almost screams. He’s contemplating chucking his phone out the window when a text pops up below the undelivered one.

**[Boogara]: At my parents. Everything’s fucked. Get here asap.**

Shane chokes out a sound that might be laughter but reeks more of incredulity and tells Sara to take a left into the side streets. Despite the traffic there are still pockets of defiant American normalcy that Shane notes as they wind through neighborhoods. There’s people walking their dogs, watering their lawns, or talking to neighbors against the backdrop of sirens and smoke rising in the distance. It feels surreal to witness while knowing what’s happening closer to the city center and Shane desperately hopes this ends up being a fever dream or some mass hallucination. 

If only it were that easy. 

Ryan’s parent’s place is tucked into a random suburb and it’s oddly quiet when they arrive. Shane leaves Obi in the car and crushes Ryan into a bruising hug when he rushes out onto the lawn. His eyes are wild and he’s talking a mile a minute so it takes a second for Shane’s brain to catch up. 

“Take a breath,” Sara says as Ryan drags them inside and into the chaos of activity. Jake is shouting at the TV while tossing things haphazardly into a series of different bags; the news is encouraging people to remain indoors and calm. Shane wants to laugh at the audacity of it. Steve is in the kitchen sorting through the cabinets and unplugging appliances while Linda tries to get the landline to work and the dogs to listen. 

“Teej told us to try and get to the cabin before everything cut out,” Ryan rambles, tromping upstairs where he starts stripping the beds of blankets and pillows. “How’re the roads?”

“Bad,” Shane replies without elaboration as he helps with the bedding, doing his best to roll it as tight as possible. They need to be considerate of space even with three cars between them. He and Sara had done their best to stick to the basics: first aid, water, food, clothing and a small selection of keepsakes but nothing too heavy or cumbersome. Shane is desperate to hold onto the idea that they’ll be back soon. 

“But that was closer in,” Sara chimes in, straightening up with blankets under each arm. “We might beat it if we head out soon.”

Ryan mumbles his assent and picks up his pace, rushing his family to start loading up the cars. Steve is carting the last two bags out when three screeching forms round the corner of the house and intercept him halfway to the driveway. Linda screams, high pitched and frantic— Micki and Dori barking loudly against the car windows— before all hell breaks loose. 

This is the stretch of time where Shane learns how to wield the baseball bat— sans nails, those will come later— in some kind of effective way. Where they learn the strength of the Screechers unrelenting fury; how fucking terrifying it is to hit something repeatedly only for it to keep right on coming until you smash it’s skull to pieces. Where Ryan and Jake become parentless in the span of minutes because none of them are fast enough to beat this virus. It’s Jake who puts a hammer through his father’s head where he’s hunched over the torn expanse of his wife’s throat while she coughs up blood, dark eyes rolling before glazing into milky white. Jake, who screams out a sob and brings the hammer down again and again until she too is still. He only stops because Sara wraps her arms around his chest and hauls him backwards towards her Subaru. She yells at Shane to go and he takes blundering steps to collect the keys from Steve’s bloodstained fist. 

Shane peels out of the driveway with a white knuckled grip. Ryan, a shivering mass in the passenger seat, cries open mouthed against the heel of his palm. He’s hardly making a sound and Shane feels half crazed. Can do nothing for Ryan but try to keep the car on the road and attempt at soothing noises while digging his fingers into the meat of Ryan’s thigh. As if it can hold the pain at bay. As if it can undo the past fifteen minutes and reshape them into something kinder. 

AFTER

Ryan’s out on a run with Shane when he brings it up again. It’s been two weeks since the supply run debacle and though Ryan’s somewhat slower than normal, he’s doing a decent job of keeping pace. They run in the mornings when the air is cooler but it’s bright enough to see into the shadows, and Shane savors them like something precious. Ryan constantly prattles to everyone about the importance of cardio, as if he hasn’t watched Zombieland a thousand times before, but Shane thinks he’s got a valid point. Sometimes they wear their packs, weighted down with gear, to see how long they can go before getting winded. 

“We could be back before the weather really turns,” Ryan says as they approach the halfway point of their route and he only slightly fumbles the water bottle when Shane chucks it at his head. “Hey! No really— I mean it. We’ve got the Subaru and the others will be okay here. It’s the quietest place we’ve stayed so far. I just think— _Shane_!”

Shane blinks innocently from where he’s tucked his fingers into the waistband of Ryan’s shorts. He knows where this conversation is going and that his feelings about it haven’t really changed. They’ve got a good thing going here with a manageable number of undead, no stiff competition for resources, and the reliability of the brick and mortar fortress they call home. He doesn’t know why Ryan keeps insisting they chance it on a possibility Shane’s already made his peace with. 

“Nope,” Shane replies, popping the p obnoxiously and wiggling his fingers further into Ryan’s shorts. He’ll act like he was going for the knife at Ryan’s hip if he needs to. Ryan whirls away from him with a glare. Shane bites down on his responding laugh. 

“I don’t get why you won’t even _try_ ,” Ryan whines. Shane shrugs one shoulder up like he’s indifferent. 

“It’s not a guarantee.”

“Nothing’s a guarantee anymore,” Ryan fires back, eyebrows rising in a challenge. It’s the fucking apocalypse and they still find themselves falling into bickering like there’s cameras rolling somewhere. 

“Just drop it, Ryan. We don’t even know if they’ll be there. I’m not trekking across the country on the off chance my family’s survived this long. Not when—”

“But why!” Ryan explodes, fingers flying into his hair and oh, _oh_. He’s pissed. Ryan is pissed at Shane over this and that’s, that’s not fair. 

Shane knows he and Ryan are different, hell it’s part of the reason their show was so successful, but sometimes he forgets that the differences between them can grate. Ryan lost his parents in the start of this, but Jake is still here and maybe because of that, Ryan won’t fully understand where Shane’s coming from. If he doesn’t know with 100 percent certainty that his family is dead, or undead, or trapped in some quarantine zone, or _whatever_ , then Shane can keep imagining them safe and whole. He can keep pretending like the wound in his chest won't get any bigger because he doesn’t have any concrete reason to behave otherwise. 

“I just _can’t_ ,” Shane says and Ryan must see something in the way Shane’s expression threatens to close off because he drops his hands to take both of Shane’s. He kisses the knuckles of each then swipes his thumbs across them before letting go. 

“Okay,” Ryan says. “Okay.”

Shane misses him acutely when he steps back but that’s nothing new. They head back in silence, the steady pound of their feet against the cracked pavement a soothing lull. Ryan mentions that they should bring the dogs along next time and Shane grunts his agreement as they round into the final stretch. He lengthens his stride and pushes past the burn in his calves. Smiles brightly when he reaches the steps to find Ryan wheezing slightly at his side. He clasps a hand to the back of Ryan’s neck and reminds himself of how lucky he is to have kept his found family this long. 

The wound will heal, or it won’t. Shane just doesn’t want to be foolhardy enough to go and push his luck. Ryan might never fully understand, but Shane’s okay with that. He has to be. 

BEFORE

TJ’s family cabin is fairly hidden at the base of the San Gabriel mountain range. Miles outside the city proper, Shane is glad they’ve traveled here yearly since Unsolved started, otherwise he thinks he’d have a hell of a time finding it. Ryan’s fallen asleep with his forehead pressed to the window and even though he’s been crying off and on for stretches at a time, he’s mostly silent now. 

The woods are eerily quiet, as if holding its breath or bracing for a storm, when Shane eases his way out from behind the wheel. Sara’s car is parked crookedly at the bottom of the cabin stairs but it’s empty when Shane peeks through the windows. There are a few other cars around that he recognizes from the Buzzfeed parking lot though he feels too jumbled to fully remember who they belong to. TJ appears on the porch with a hunting rifle in hand and a frown on his face but he visibly brightens when he realizes it’s Shane. 

“Alright?” TJ asks as he makes his way down the stairs, eyes still on the treeline. 

“Define alright,” Shane says and they both turn to the car where Ryan is tumbling out of the passengers' side. He’s shaking so hard he nearly trips but he stiffens when Shane gets an arm around him. 

“Don’t.” Ryan seethes and Shane feels it like a punch to the solar plexus. TJ’s eyes soften even more when Shane casts him a glance and he shakes his head slightly. Sara must have filled him in because he isn’t asking questions, just motions for them to follow and doesn’t try to touch Ryan when he moves past in the doorway. 

“Glad you made it,” TJ tells Shane once the door is securely locked. “Wasn’t sure how many people actually got my message but a good number have made it so far.”

Shane nods while he takes in the cabin and it’s occupants. It’s not particularly small by any means— two floors with four bedrooms and a large living room that blends into the kitchen— but it feels more cramped with the number of bodies in it. He can make out Sara on the couch, fingers carding through Jake’s hair where his head rests in her lap. Ryan on the floor in front of them, folded around his knees from how small he’s curled up. Katie LeBlanc, Kelsey, and Kate are sorting through bags in the kitchen while Curly, Devon, and Mark entertain Silas as best they can. 

“Intentional Buzzfeed only party?” Shane cracks because if someone had told him last week he would be undertaking the apocalypse with a handful of his ex coworkers, he would have told them to fuck off. TJ merely shrugs. 

“Like I said, I hit up a lot of people.”

“But your families?” Shane ventures and TJ looks away. 

“Out of state,” He replies and doesn’t elaborate. Shane gets it, finds himself thinking about his parents in Schaumburg and Scott in New York. Wonders if he’ll ever hear their voices again on anything other than old voicemails. 

The crunch of tires on gravel breaks them from their morbid reverie and Shane follows TJ back out onto the porch. Eugene and Ned are clambering out of the front of the 4Runner while Keith keeps Zack up between himself and the back bumper. They’re angled away from the porch so Shane can’t fully see what’s up but TJ must have a better vantage because he’s cocking the gun and stalking down the steps. 

“Wait!” Eugene pleads, hands up in supplication, stumbling backwards as TJ advances. 

“Teej,” Shane says, coming off the porch to intervene but TJ doesn’t stop. Keith is still between TJ and Zack, who's curled in half, pale and sweaty in the evening light and Shane almost says he’s just car sick when he sees it. Zack has a towel pressed to the side of his neck and it’s absolutely _drenched_ in blood. Shane freezes, any rebuttal lodged in his throat. 

“How long?” TJ asks, gun leveled at Zack’s head. Shane registers that Eugene is crying and Ned isn’t saying anything and Keith is way too fucking close to Zack for what comes next. 

“How. Long?” TJ repeats but no one needs to answer because Zack starts to vomit a black tar like substance into the dirt, his whole body convulsing with it before he snaps up and launches himself at Keith, tearing into the flesh of his shoulder like a dog with a bone. Someone screams over the crack of two gunshots and a murder of crows takes flight from the treetops to the right of them. Their distressed caws a bizarre accompaniment to the tapering screams. 

Shane looks down at the mess that used to be Zack _and_ Keith and realizes distantly that he’s been the one wailing. 

AFTER

Just because Ryan agreed to drop it doesn’t mean Sara got the memo. Because obviously they talk and Shane is an idiot for thinking anything less. He and Sara are showering at the lake house, enjoying the time away from the others, or so Shane was foolish enough to believe, when she corners him. 

“So. I’ve been thinking about the Midwest,” Sara says, crowding Shane back against the shower wall and it shouldn’t be as hot as it is but it _has_ been a while. 

The lake house is a ridiculous chrome and glass monstrosity that was likely some rich asshole’s vacation spot. They’d found the owner dead in the master bedroom on the first sweep of the place. A bullet to the head, a bite mark on his leg and Shane didn’t know how to feel about the fact that even with all the guy’s money, it couldn’t keep him alive. Despite its surrounding walls and high hedges, the openness of the floorplan and floor to ceiling wrap around windows make it too vulnerable for long term living. It’d also been the general consensus to save the use of its generator for things like showers and laundry. Quinta has affectionately named it the Couple’s Retreat on account of how often the couples in their group sneak off here when they can, but Shane knows they’ve noticed how regularly Ryan tags along with him and Sara. Maybe someone would have mentioned it before, now it earns them little more than a sideways glance. It’s weird Ryan isn’t here this time, though it’s making more sense now Sara’s started talking. 

“I want to go,” Sara mumbles against his neck, her fingers sliding over the slick skin of his hip and Shane feels dangerously close to agreeing if it means she’ll go lower. 

“Oh yeah?” Shane gasps wetly.

“Mmhmm,” Sara bites across his collarbones before sinking to the tile floor and any further questions dam against the back of Shane’s clenched teeth when she swallows him down. 

Twenty minutes later and a load of laundry started, Shane follows up. Sara’s watching an osprey swoop down into the glittering surface of the lake with her toes buried in the warm sand. Shane wants to chide her for leaving her boots inside, nerves and the constant threat of needing to run or fight crowding against his shoulders, but they get so few moments like this that he simply drops her shoes to the side and wraps his arms around her middle instead. 

“Bode lake’s got nothin’ on this,” Shane mentions offhandedly and even though memories of family trips and sun soaked laughter threaten to overwhelm him, he keeps talking. “I’m scared, Sara. I know you and Ryan think it’s a good idea. Closure or whatever, but I’m fucking terrified of what we might find.”

Sara turns in the circle of his arms and peers up at him from beneath her damp curls. Although talking about his feelings has always been easiest with her he still stumbles on them sometimes. The apocalypse seems to have relaxed that defensive reflex even further. She settles her palms on his chest and rocks up on the balls of her feet to kiss his chin. He ducks his head slightly to kiss her fully and lets out a shaky breath when they part. 

“I know you are, baby,” Sara soothes. “But you won’t be alone. We’ll be with you the whole time. We can help however you’ll let us.”

Shane wants to point out that eighteen months is a long time— especially in this new world— how anything could have happened in that time frame. That Scott probably went home in the beginning and how it must have been bad enough to prevent them from trying for the west coast to get to Shane. He’s thinking of the disaster plans they went over at the dining room table as kids but never mentioned with any seriousness as adults. Never discussed what to do across state lines and the lack of telephones, let alone accounted for the presence of the undead. He wishes with the ferocity of this stark reality that they had, even jokingly. The ache in his chest throbs with a renewed intensity and Shane knows in that moment that he’ll cave.

“Fine,” Shane says even though he feels anything but. “I fold.”

Sara doesn’t boast, just hugs him tighter briefly and smooths the pads of her fingers against his neck. 

“Thank you,” She says with a gravity to her voice. “This will be good. I promise.”

Shane doesn’t mention how promises mean very little anymore. 

BEFORE

They bury Zack and Keith at the edge of the cabin’s backyard. Ned mentions something about burning the bodies but TJ vetoes it on account of the smoke bringing unwanted attention. Curly recites a Spanish poem about death by Gabriela Mistral as they toss the first shovels of dirt over the bodies. Ryan stands a little behind everyone else, fists clenched at his side until Jake wraps a hand around the back of his neck and Ryan collapses into the touch. 

A muted kind of mourning hangs over the cabin after the burial. Everyone moves around in a daze, fueled only by the fact that they can’t afford to grieve through inaction. There are too many unknown variables at play. Shane does his best to comfort Eugene and Ned in between watch shifts and zombie proofing the cabin. He thinks he does it because Ryan won’t let him get close. Spends the majority of his time with Jake or Curly, talking in stilted Spanish that’s more than Shane’s ever heard him attempt before. 

And then there's the night where Shane wakes up to a chill at his side where Sara usually rests and he panics briefly before he hears the low murmur of voices coming from the bathroom. He treads carefully between the sleeping forms on the living room floor and hovers at the doorway of the bathroom like some creep to listen in on the hushed conversation taking place. He can just make out something about _loss_ and _letting yourself feel it_ and _we’ve got you_. The door is slightly ajar and through the sliver Shane watches Sara run a washcloth over the expanse of Ryan’s back where he’s huddled in the bathtub. The intimacy of it tugs at Shane’s gut. He’s spent so long building walls around the yearning for things he figured would never be possible that it feels somewhat unfair how this moment takes a sledgehammer to all his finely crafted defenses. He grips hard at the wood beneath his fingers before pushing away to retreat back into the living room. He doesn’t fall fully back into sleep until Sara climbs in beside him some indeterminate amount of time later. Until he hears Ryan’s breathing even out from his bedroll at the foot of theirs. 

It’s Ned who pitches the idea of splitting up. Ariel and Wes were visiting her family in Colorado when everything started. Ned got through to her before the grids went black and promised he’d get to them as soon as he could. The two weeks they’ve been at the cabin seem to be as long as he can stand. The thought of splitting up makes Shane nervous and TJ tells Ned he’s a straight up idiot but there’s no talking him out of it. Shane knows he’d do the same if he were in Ned’s place but it doesn’t make swallowing it any easier. Besides, Eugene, Curly, Katie, and Devon back Ned up when it comes down to it. So they start making plans. 

Denver is 15 hrs away if they drove nonstop but that was before the apocalypse and no one has any idea what condition the roads are in. They decide on taking the 4Runner and load it down with as many supplies as the others can spare. TJ pressed a glock 22 followed by two boxes of ammo into Ned’s hands by way of goodbye. Shane lingers at the driver’s side, glances past Ned to Eugene in the passenger's seat and the other three in the back. This might very well be the last time he sees any of them. He wants to say something profound or meaningful, something that isn’t _bye, nice knowing you_. So of course what he comes up with is:

“Do not go gentle into that good night.”

Devon bursts out laughing, her fingers warm over Shane’s wrist against the headrest where he’s crowding Ned to get a better look at them all, and Curly cocks an eyebrow slightly to try and conceal his own grin. 

“So glad you’re still weird, pachuco.”

“Til the end of the line, baby!” Shane responds, his smile genuine despite the tightness in his chest. 

“Let’s go before he runs out of bits,” Eugene says leaning over Ned to push Shane out of the car with a palm to his forehead. He turns it into a cheek pat at the end and Shane feels okay enough to turn away once they reach the road. He stands on the porch for a while, listening to the cabin settling and the sounds of the forest waking up, slowly coming back to life as the sun rises beyond the tree line. 

Ryan finds him there a little while later and the mug of coffee he offers between them feels like an apology Shane doesn’t have the heart to say he isn’t owed. 

AFTER

“Seat belts!” Ryan happily reminds from the driver's seat. He’s wearing a Watcher snapback and rifling through the CD holder case Sara keeps in the glove compartment. He crows triumphantly when he finds what he’s looking for and pops the burned disc into the player while making eye contact with Shane in the rearview mirror. He wiggles his eyebrows when the first strains of Mama Mia blare through the car speakers. Sara laughs, loud and unrestrained, and Shane thinks about how easy it would be to pretend this was a normal road trip. One from before, where the most dangerous concerns would be something small like running out of snacks or needing to pee 40 miles before the next rest stop. 

“Mama mia, does it show again! My, my, just how much I’ve missed you?” Ryan and Sara sing together, loud and slightly off key as they pull out of the driveway and onto the main street. Adam did a perfunctory check of the oil and fan belts shortly before they left and there’s 3/4th of a tank of gas so they’ll have a while before they need to stop and siphon any more. Shane stretches out in the back seat as much as his seat belt will allow and runs another inventory of their supplies in his head. They’ll be on the road for three days minimum if things go well, a week maybe if they don’t. He’s on map duty because the other two insist on doing the bulk of driving and it gives him something to focus on that isn’t the constant alarm bells going off in his head. 

There’s two of the cooler water jugs rattling around in the back, another case of bottled water for emergencies, a heavy duty survival first aid kit, and a couple boxes of MREs pilfered from the storeroom of the Guns & Ammo shop in between the sleeping bags and bed rolls. Shane also brought the camping hammocks in case the car proves to be too cramped or they can’t find an empty motel to shack up in and feels pretty confident that he can set them up high enough to be safe. Bohemian Rhapsody starts to play and Shane pulls himself between the front seats to belt the chorus into Ryan’s open, laughing face. 

The landscape scrapes past the windows, shifting from woodlands to empty rolling fields of abandoned farmland before easing into dry desert. Sara rolls her window down and whoops into the heat, her hair whipping wildly around her face. The destruction is minimal so far. A few burned out buildings and stalled cars on the side of the road but nothing serious blocks their way. The odd milepost flashes past, occasionally splattered with gore. They stop for the night on the outskirts of Ontario at the Oregon and Idaho border, the setting August sun pulling long shadows across the asphalt of the roadside hotel Sara spotted from the freeway. 

Shane twirls his bat with one hand before rapping its handle against the office door frame and steps back to listen. There’s shuffling movement from behind the desk but nothing appears in the doorway and after a beat, Ryan pushes past Shane with his katana outstretched. Shane shares a look with Sara and ducks into the office on Ryan’s heels. The zombie responsible for the noise is trapped behind the dusty counter by the latched divider it’s repeatedly ramming itself against. It appears to be the only one and Ryan makes quick work of it with a well placed thrust of the katana. The zombie crumples into a heap and Ryan steps over it to get to the key rack on the back wall. He grabs a handful of keys and jangles them in Shane and Sara’s direction with a smile. 

“Dibs on the minibar.”

“We can each have our own minibar,” Sara says as they make their way down the breezeway. A lot of the room's doors are open, as if people left in a hurry, but nothing moves in the darkness beyond them so Shane lets his shoulders relax. They settle on room 17 on account of it being tucked into an alcove. It's furniture is covered by a fine layer of dust but otherwise it’s clean, with two queen beds and a shower that sputters out frigid water. Sara backs the car into the space in front of the room in case they need to leave quickly and heaves their bags onto the bed closest to the window. Shane pins the curtains closed with a couple binder clips from his pack while Ryan digs through the aforementioned minibar. He holds aloft an array of tiny bottles between his fingers and twists off the cap of one with his teeth. 

“Bottoms up,” He toasts, dropping the others into Sara’s lap where she’s smearing peanut butter on saltines. Shane checks the deadbolt on the door and ambles over to sprawl across the bed, picking up the little bottle of Jack Daniels. 

“Wish we had a chaser,” Shane muses wistfully while unscrewing the cap to take a swig. His tolerance is going to be shit, but they’re relatively safe here and he can’t remember the last time the three of them got drunk. 

“Hold please,” Ryan pops up, reaching for the sword and he’s out the door before Shane or Sara can move to go with him. 

“That man,” Sara says around the cracker in her mouth, “Is a fool.”

Shane laughs in agreement and decides if Ryan isn’t back in ten, he’s going after him. He’s leaned up against the doorway, watching a plastic bag get tossed around by the wind in the parking lot when Ryan returns with his haul. He’s got three Cokes and two Sprites cradled to his chest and a package of plastic cups between his teeth. Shane takes the cups when Ryan gets close enough and separates three of them out on the dresser. He empties the Jack into one, tequila into another, and bourbon into the last before topping them up with the sodas. 

“Pick your poison,” He tells Sara with a grin and she ooo’s approvingly before swiping the tequila and Sprite. Ryan takes the bourbon and Shane cheers them before taking a swig of his Jack and Coke. The alcohol leaves a sweet burn down his throat despite the warm fizz of the Coke and _god_ , he’s missed this feeling. Sara feeds them saltines in between sips and Ryan suggests Uno after a trip to the room next door for more booze. Shane’s feeling light and giddy, his shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, Ryan slapping down another draw four that pulls a groan from Sara at the head of the bed. Shane can’t help the flood of his laughter, or the way he starfishes across the bed, because Ryan is winning and must be stopped at all costs lest it go to his head. 

Ryan shrieks in protest but goes down easy when Shane tugs him into his chest with a hand around his wrist. His breath is warm across Shane’s collarbones and Sara hums appreciatively at the sight of them tangled together. There’s a flush high on Ryan’s cheeks and Shane presses his thumbs there to tear a strangled moan from Ryan. He chases the sound with his mouth and everything goes hazy after that. Slides in and out of focus to the beat of his heart and the tides of their hands on him. 

They sleep past sunrise and Shane considers the hangover a fair exchange for the effortless way Ryan and Sara smile throughout the rest of the day. 

BEFORE

The cabin is emptier with five of its occupants gone, a little less loud, a little less crowded. Silas spends the first few days asking if the monsters got their friends, and no one has the heart to really manage an answer. Shane suggests the supply run simply for the excuse to do something other than wallow. 

“I'm about it,” Kelsey says from the kitchen counter where she’s perched watching Ryan’s attempt at cooking spaghetti. The power comes and goes sporadically and though they all know it will eventually shut off for real, they keep cheering each time the lights flicker on like maybe it can put the inevitable off a little longer. 

“Same,” Jake adds at the same time Mark waves a knitting needle in Shane’s direction. 

“Okay, cool.” Shane says, pushing a hand through his hair. He adjusts his glasses, the lenses smudged from how often he’s been fiddling with them, and spares TJ a glance. “Tomorrow early should be good. I mostly remember how to get to the store in town.”

“Mark knows,” TJ says around a smile and Mark salutes him good naturedly. 

“Aye captain, my captain.”

The day dawns bright with an unseasonal bite for early May. Shane doesn’t know the exact date but that his birthday couldn’t have happened yet because he overheard Ryan and Kate discussing how to celebrate it in the kitchen the other morning when they thought he was distracted watching Silas. 34 seems too young to be facing down an apocalypse. Shane honestly thought he’d have more time to get himself together before the world ended. 

Mark’s driving, Kelsey and Jake rechecking the gear in the backseat, and Shane watches the road like he doesn’t trust it to take them where they need to go. The town doesn’t look too wrecked when they reach it, more like people chose to hunker down and weather it than split. Shane thinks he sees a few curtains flutter in the houses they pass and wonders if he should be worried. No one’s bothered them at the cabin but they hear gunshots sometimes, echoing through the trees, and those are the nights TJ doesn’t sleep. Posts up by the door with the rifle like some bearded sentinel. Ryan joins him on occasion and they talk in hushed voices that Shane tries hard not to listen in on. 

“Let’s do this,” Kelsey says when they reach the Super Mart. They’ve parked down the block in front of some unoccupied houses, hoping to draw less attention that way. Her blonde hair is piled onto her head in a bun and the blue of her eyes spark with nerves and anticipation. Shane matches the feral lilt of her smile with his own. Jake adjusts the backpack over his shoulder, fingering the hammer at his belt. Mark rattles the jar of marbles Kate insisted they use to check for undead and stops at the electric doors of the store. Jake and Kelsey pry them open with a grunt and Mark rolls the canister into the dimly lit aisles. They wait with weapons in their grip but nothing moves, no growls spill forth and Shane lets out a breath he always feels like he’s holding these days. Kelsey moves forward into the flickering of the emergency lights and the rest of them follow obediently. 

The place is pretty ransacked, the cloying smell of rotten meat and dairy hanging heavy in the air and most of the shelves stretch empty before them. Shane tugs the bandana around his neck up over his nose and tries not to gag. They split into pairs, Mark with Shane and Kelsey with Jake, and begin a slow meander through the aisles. Mark digs through the mess of expiring produce, tossing apples, potatoes and onions at Shane with the pack. They’ve got a kind of game going when Jake shouts to them from the back where the storeroom must be. 

“Think it’s worth it?” Jake says when Shane and Mark draw close. Kelsey is sizing up the padlocked door and the gun in her hand like she’s considering the best angle to shoot it off. 

“I don’t know…” Shane says at the same time Kelsey takes a step back to line up her shot. “Kelsey! Don’t!”

He gets a hand around her wrist before she can pull the trigger and the indignant look she gives him would be comical if she didn’t almost kill them with shrapnel or a ricocheting bullet. 

“That shits for movies _only_ ,” Shane says, tucking the gun into his waistband once the safety’s back on. “Wrenches work a whole hell of a lot better.”

Mark makes two nut wrenches appear and Shane would ask but he knows better by now. He fits the wrenches into the hinge of the lock and uses both hands to torque the handles inwards. The padlock eventually gives with a dull pop and the chain slithers to the ground after. He gives Kelsey a little bow and laughs when she rolls her eyes as she tugs the door open. There is a moment where nothing happens, where Kelsey lets out a whoop at the loaded shelves before her and for a long time after, Shane will berate himself for not knocking on the damn door first. For being so fucking reckless and stupid. The hands that grope out and drag Kelsey into the storeroom are mottled grey and black, the flesh hanging off them pockmarked with rot. Kelsey’s screams send a bolt of fear rocketing through Shane so hard he feels winded from it. 

“Kels, your gun!” Jake shouts, rushing forward with his hammer raised and Shane’s fear twists sharply. The gun. _The gun is in his possession._ He took it from Kelsey not five minutes ago, like a parent scolding a naughty child, and _why hadn’t he given it back_. He scrambles to retrieve it, prays he won’t be too late— like he was for Ryan’s parents, for Keith and Zach— and careens into the room with them. 

Jake has taken out one and is wrestling with another. Kelsey, flat on her back, is holding a plank of wood up to fend off the other that’s pinned her to the floor. The fourth has a grasp on her ankle, dragging them deeper into the shadows at the back of the room and Shane takes aim at that one first. The gunshot rings out through the tableau but Shane’s firing again before it can really register. Kelsey lets out a sob when Jake helps her to her feet. Shane feels on the verge of collapsing himself but he manages to wordlessly hand the gun back over to her. 

“We should go,” Mark says behind them and Shane can’t find his voice right now to agree. Jake starts shoving the items closest to him on the stockroom shelves into his bag and after a beat the others join in. Kelsey’s shaking like a leaf, so hard that she drops a can of beans three times before Shane bends down to pick it up for her. He scoops her into a hug when he straightens up and tries not to think about how he’s never hugged her before. The bulk of physical intimacy in his friendships has gone to Ryan but this feels important, feels like Shane doesn’t want to hold back anymore. Not when it might be the last chance he’ll get. Kelsey pushes her face into his chest briefly before untangling herself. She takes a shuddering breath with eyes squeezed shut and steps away. 

“Yeah, you should go.”

“Kelsey?” Jake asks from the doorway where he’s moved next to Mark. 

“I’m so sorry guys,” Kelsey says and Shane isn’t quick enough this time. Her hands don’t shake when she brings the barrel up against her temple and pulls the trigger. 

“What the fuck?!” Jake cries out but in the time it took for Kelsey to cock the gun, Shane had made out the angry red laceration on her wrist. Jake and Mark will never say it but Shane knows this is his fault. 

He carries Kelsey’s body to the car on legs that surprisingly don’t give out. Cradles her close in the backseat during the silent agony of the drive back to the cabin and vows to do everything in his power to keep from losing anyone else. 

AFTER

The thing about road trips— both before and after the end of the world— is that there are long stretches of time where the only company is oneself. Hours to fill beyond the thrum of wheels over pavement or the soft murmur of the CD playing through the speakers. Sara falls asleep in the passenger seat and Ryan puts on For Emma, Forever Ago, so Shane feigns sleep just to give him some space. 

Folded up in the backseat, playing at comfortable, Shane thinks about how to unmake his grief. Midwest repression will only carry so much weight in the face of insurmountable loss and Shane is so tired of trailing it behind him. There are so many ghosts on his heels, here now, where they never existed before. Shane wants to ask Ryan if he can see them as vividly as Shane does. 

He catalogues them instead. 

There’s lying in the grass at the back of the cabin, sharing a cigarette with Ned while Eugene rambles between them about how Keith talked with his hands and Zach never knew when to call it quits with a bit. There’s TJ haloed by the light spilling in from the upper windows of the kitchen, making the last of the eggs with Silas on his shoulders like it’s nothing a father wouldn’t do for his son. There’s Kelsey laughing, head tipped back with her arms outstretched, as she walks backwards down the dusty road to the supermarket; the wink and finger guns she gives in a ridiculously accurate imitation of Shane setting them off chuckling with her. There’s the tender way Curly called him calaca in one breath and cariño with the next. There’s Devon jumping off the high rocks into the lake they’d found on a hike when staying cooped up in the cabin for one more moment had felt unbearable. There’s Katie singing Puppet History songs with Silas in the living room, fashioning clothes for the Professor out of scraps of discarded fabric. 

There are too many snapshots to fold up into the accordion of his heart but Shane tries. Not just for the dead and the missing, but for the living too. He wishes vehemently for a camera, for a laptop and electricity. So he can cobble together the footage and display it on the wall. Leave behind more than just a Shane shaped hole when he goes. But the apocalypse doesn’t have time for cameras and nostalgia, it’s the only thing that’s fully present. 

It will eat them alive if it gets the chance. 

The car slows to a crawl before stopping on the inner shoulder and Shane sits up to peer through the windshield with Ryan. A semi truck has fishtailed across the four lane highway with a pile up of cars on either side. Someone has spray painted **GOD SAVE THE DEAD** on the semi’s side in large block letters. Shane wonders where they are now. The wreck looks pretty bad, like it was probably crawling with ghouls at some point. At least it appears quieter now. 

“Whazzit?” Sara asks, sitting up with knuckles pressed into her eyes below her glasses. Shane and Ryan share a look before throwing up shakas and shouting “Whazzzuhhhp?!” simultaneously. 

“Think any of those cars have gas?” Sara snorts while they wheeze out a couple more _whazzups_ at each other. 

“Worth a shot,” Ryan says when he gets his laughter back under control. “Plenty of options at least.”

They step out of the car, closing the doors loudly to see if they can flush out any lingering undead. Shane retrieves the gas cans and hoses from the trunk and clangs them together to add to the noise. A few Shamblers amble forward which Sara and Ryan take out with ease. Shane scans the roadside as they approach the first car. It’s driver door hangs open with the driver snarling from the tangle of its seatbelt. Sara rams her pipe through its snapping mouth and has to plant her foot on the door jam to wrench it free. Shane gets to work setting up the siphoning equipment by the gas tank over her chants of “Gross, gross. So fuckin _gross_.” 

TJ taught them all early on the double hose trick so no one actually has to risk getting gasoline in their mouth but sometimes the t-shirt fails to make a proper seal and they have to waste water getting it wet. This car yields about a fourth of the first canister and Shane swears heartily before scrambling over the hood of their next target. 

They work their way steadily around the wreckage, Ryan singing Gasolina under his breath like it’s a good luck charm. There are a few cars too burned up to even bother with and others that have anti siphoning mechanisms which won’t budge but they luck out between a Yukon XL and a Lincoln Navigator with nearly full tanks. Sara trudges back to refill the Subaru so they can siphon more and put off stopping again a little longer. They’re not always as lucky as they’ve been today. 

“Grim shit,” Ryan says while Shane fiddles with the tubing to make sure the seal is still tight. Ryan’s staring at the semi again. On this side the artist has written **GOD HAS FORSAKEN THE LIVING**. 

“Original,” Shane quips.

“Very. But it kinda feels like it.”

Shane doesn’t believe in God. Has made that abundantly clear, both before and after the apocalypse, but Ryan grew up Catholic Lite and Shane isn’t that big into shooting him down anymore. Even if it sometimes feels like the kinder thing to do. 

“God’s an asshole,” Sara says when she reappears to find them staring at the graffiti. She hands Shane back the gas can. “Even before all this, he was an asshole. Now we just have definite proof.”

“In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed. Corinthians 15:52.” Ryan says and Sara shrugs her shoulders. 

“Imperishable, my ass.”

“We’ve definitely changed though,” Shane says ruefully while extracting the tubing and screwing the caps back on. 

“Can’t argue that,” Sara agrees with her arms widespread, complete with a little spin on her heels. “Now let’s get our changed selves back on the road. Looks like we can get around this on the Westbound side and then cut back over.”

Ryan is quiet as they troop back to the car and Sara hipchecks him when he reaches for the driver’s door. 

“Grab some z’s,” Shane says with a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “I’ll take shotgun.”

He knows Ryan most likely won’t, isn’t gifted with Shane’s ability to just shut down into sleep, but he hopes he’ll try. They’re a day out from Schaumburg and Shane needs him together. He reaches a long arm into the back by Ryan’s hip with his palm turned up. It’s instinctual when Ryan slips his fingers through Shane’s to give them a squeeze. 

BEFORE 

The Worth It boys with Quinta and Annie in tow arrive at the cabin on Shane’s birthday. It’s a welcome respite from the loath silence Shane has wrapped around himself since Kelsey’s death. No one’s blamed him, no one’s said anything unkind, but Shane’s head is loud enough that he probably wouldn’t be able to hear them anyway.

“We were filming,” Quinta says by way of explaining why she’s with them. “We had approval for some locations by the office. Someone probably figured it’d boost morale or whatever white nonsense you want to call it. Ya should have _seen_ Adam brain the restaurant host with a camera.”

“They were going for your throat,” Adam shrugs like it’s no big deal. 

“Our lil silent hero,” Annie says with an exceptionally fond look on her face. Shane thinks this is the best birthday present he could have asked for. 

“Happy birthday, Shane!” Steven beams at him, bounding up the steps to wrap him in a ridiculously long limbed hug. 

“You remembered?” Shane asks while Ryan takes imaginary pictures of their embrace. 

“Of course, dude! I never forget a birthday.”

“He really doesn’t,” Andrew says and Adam nods. 

“What are we doing to celebrate?” Quinta asks, pushing past and into the cabin, where Shane hears a cheer go up. 

“No idea,” Shane calls after her but he stays on the porch. “They told me I’m not allowed inside until they’re finished with their secrets.”

They’ve been at it for a while now, which Shane finds funny because it’s not like they can go all out in an apocalypse. He would have been happy with a card or something, the guilt over Kelsey a hot poker in his side, and he’s spent a good portion of the morning sitting by the graves in the backyard. Ryan and the dogs have been keeping him company, not allowing him to wallow too much. Steven hangs back with the two of them on the porch and they fall into easy banter. It feels vaguely like a Watcher Weekly episode, just dirtier and without cameras, and Shane misses it with a suddenness that sets his eyes stinging. He rubs the back of his wrist across them and the conversation lapses. 

“You okay?” Ryan asks, because he notices everything when it comes to Shane. The timber of his voice is so soothing— Shane recognizes it from the late night kitchen sessions in Watcher’s early stages; from the Unsolved days when it was Shane comforting Ryan— that he starts crying in earnest. Folds himself into his knees and just lets go. Steven makes a noise and scrambles up to sit on Shane’s other side while Ryan drapes an arm across his shoulders and tucks his face into the hair above Shane’s ear. It’s greasy and far too long but Ryan doesn’t mention it. Steven starts rubbing circles into his back and Shane sobs harder, full body shudders that wrack up his throat on just this side of painful. And it does hurt; all of it and none of it. The mere fact that he’s sitting here existing while his friends are dead or lost in this shitty hellhole wasteland doesn’t make sense to him. Shane doesn’t wish he was dead, it’s not that, he just wishes someone would give him a roadmap to navigate it. 

“Sorry,” He says when his heaves turn dry. His voice sounds fucked out and raw. There’s a headache building at the base of his skull. He doesn’t pull his head up from the pillow of his arms. 

“Nothing to apologize for, big guy,” Ryan murmurs, still pressed into Shane’s side until Steven hands Shane a water bottle and Ryan has to move so he can open it and drink. 

“Whole thing,” Steven says when Shane goes to hand it back. He chugs it greedily then, dehydration is no joke nowadays and Shane doesn’t want to ruin the birthday celebrations even further. Kate comes out five minutes later to collect them for the festivities. 

“You ready to get your socks blown off, Madej?” Her smile is warm and if she notices his red nose and puffy eyes, she politely doesn’t mention it. 

“Born ready, baby,” Shane says before stepping inside. 

There’s so many fucking streamers hanging from the celing and a little pile of balloons scattered on the floor where they’re being battered around by Silas and the pets. Someone’s constructed a banner out of printer paper and twine and Shane recognizes Sara’s artwork on a series of paper pinned to the wall. Some are rough little doodles, silly things like her warm up sketches tend to be, but there are a few completed drawings. One is of her, Shane and Obi in a big red heart; another of Ryan and Shane in their Indiana Jones attire, traipsing into the woods to hunt some treasure. The last spans a few sheets taped together into a larger canvas. 

It’s a rendition of the cabin with all of them out front: Shane with his arms around Sara and Ryan on the steps, and Dori, Micki, and Obi at their feet, Jake and Curly tucked on either side of the middle three. TJ and Kate with Silas, whose clutching the Professor and perched on the porch railing, stand to one side. Mark, Devon and Katie are seated on the other railing, all in different stages of a laugh. Ned and Eugene are sprawled out in the foreground with matching cat shirts and fancy lounge poses. On the roof ledge Sara has drawn Linda, Steve, Zach, Keith, and Kelsey seated with their feet hanging off the side and arms over each other's shoulders. Someone, who Shane would bet is Andrew, has scribbled five additional stick figures on sticky notes and stuck them onto any blank space. 

“You guys,” Shane croaks when Mark appears with a pan of brownies and a plate of vanilla cupcakes with actual frosting on them. He feels like now would be a much more appropriate time to cry. Steven starts singing Happy Birthday at the top of his lungs and someone else pushes Shane into a chair by the wood stove. Annie is passing out little homemade party hats and Silas’ found a kazoo that he’s tooting on with zeal. Shane blows out the candle on one of the cupcakes and proceeds to shove the whole thing in his mouth because words are failing him at the moment. TJ hands him a high end IPA and it is the best pretentious beer Shane thinks he’s ever had. Everyone takes turns toasting him and apologizing for not having any actual gifts for him to open. Shane tells them 34 is too old for presents anyway because it seems more appropriate then _the fact you’re all even alive with me right now is gift enough_. 

They stay up late talking around the fire and when Silas falls asleep on the floor curled up around Micki and using Adam as a pillow, TJ leans in to say Shane and Sara can take the master bedroom tonight. Shane flushes because your friends giving up their room so you can have birthday sex is hilarious and ridiculously kind. 

“Oh my god Teej, thank you but it’s okay.”

“Well, Kate and I are bunking with Silas tonight so it’ll just go to waste.” TJ says with a devilish glint in his eye. 

“But Jake and Mark stay in there already,” Shane tries.

“Yay! Sleepover!” Kate calls from across the room and Shane knows he won’t win this one. 

“Okay,” He laughs, “We’d be honored to do the nasty all over your bedroom, you animals.”

“What’s a nasty?” Silas asks sleepily from the floor and everyone cackles while he looks on confusedly. 

It’s really nice to sleep on a bed again. They’ve all been taking turns in the two guest rooms but Shane and Sara have spent most nights on the living room floor. TJ and Kate even changed the sheets for them like proper hosts— even weirdo ones who want their guests to get laid— and Shane’s pretty sure they’re quiet enough. Or he does until TJ throws a shoe at the door and shouts something about impressionable children. Which is rich coming from the guy who gave them the room for this exact reason. He probably just doesn’t want to explain “the nasty” to his son so soon. 

Shane honestly can’t remember the last birthday that meant this much to him, and part of him thinks it had been so good, the universe just had to come and collect. Because not two weeks later, the forest catches fire and takes their time at the cabin with it. 

AFTER

Schaumburg is achingly familiar in many ways and completely alien in others. It’s near dark when they make it past the city limits on the third day. Fires have claimed parts of it, ash settled on the pavement in dark swaths where it's mixed with blood. Broken storefront windows and long expanses of empty streets with rubble and trash littering everything. The undead are scattered down alleyways and swaying on lawns. They totter after the car until Ryan drives them out of sight. 

They pass Shane’s old high school with it’s dead stadium lights and fenced in basketball courts. The front doors are chained shut and someone’s painted **KEEP OUT DEAD INSIDE** in what looks too much like blood across the plywood covering the windows. There’s the burned out husk of the mall where Shane spent many wasted hours as a teen, and the shell of the movieplex he went to with Scott nearly every weekend growing up. The library remains untouched, whole but vacant, and Shane wonders if they’re all that will remain in the end. Across states, in every city and town, a single place fortified against the apocalypse; as if they’re holy the way churches had once been, sacred and revered. 

Shane shuts his eyes against the onslaught of memories his birthplace holds. His breath comes in ragged heaves and Sara reaches out from the backseat, her hand warm on his shoulder. Ryan keeps shooting him glances and Shane isn’t ready to face his childhood home yet. Or what’s left of it, maybe. He directs Ryan through downtown instead, until he sees a familiar place. 

Artemis Records stands between two firebombed buildings, whole apart from a couple broken windows on the second floor. The security gate is down but it’s easy enough to lift between the three of them. Beyond the door is a dark maw of unknown but nothing moves inside when the bell above the door rings through the silence. There’s a sudden racket of noise from the alley though and Shane hustles the others ahead of him as he lets the security door drop back down with a loud bang. They stand, blinking against the darkness while bodies throw themselves against the metal outside. 

“It’ll hold.” Shane says, moving deeper into the shop while Sara fishes out a flashlight from her pack. The light of it washes over the aisles of records and CDs, dust motes dancing in it’s beam. Ryan clicks on his own flashlight and follows Shane into the back where he knows the listening area awaits. There’s two couches, a couple of squashy velvet armchairs and the old victrola Shane has always coveted, perched on a coffee table by the wall. Sara collapses onto a couch and a cloud of dust flies up around her. Shane laughs while she sneezes and bends to retrieve the package of tea candles from her bag. He begins lighting them, dropping a few onto the table by Ryan, who flicks through a milk crate of albums with his flashlight between his teeth. 

As Sara preps dinner— canned tuna and garbanzo beans, a pepper and onion from the garden in Oregon set on the small cutting board in her lap— Shane unsheathes his bat and pulls the headlamp from his jean jacket pocket. 

“Nerd.” Ryan snorts but Shane doesn’t bother with a retort, makes a beeline for the office door instead. He pushes it open slowly, listens for any sound beyond before stepping through. There’s another couch and a wooden desk with an older Mac sitting on it. Small stacks of cash from the till sit forgotten in front of the computer. A few papers are strewn across the floor but there’s nothing of real value that Shane can see. He checks the tiny closet outside the office next. It’s mostly cleaning supplies and a sink that runs brackish water even after he leaves it on. He tugs two bottles of bleach and a box of rubber cleaning gloves from the shelves and sets them outside the door to take with them when they leave. 

Ryan has put on Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue and Shane notes the Billie Holiday album at the top of the small pile he’s made. Both are records Ryan had gifted Shane over the years and his heart swoops at the memory of listening to them together on his apartment floor, stoned and tired after late night Unsolved shoots. He ruffles Ryan’s hair in passing to the stairwell at the shop's other end. 

The door at the top is closed but not locked and his knuckles smart when he raps them against the wood. Shane presses his ear to the oak and counts to a hundred before swinging it open. The apartment before him is cosy, bookshelves crowded with knicknacks, records and hardbacks, an afgan draped over the back of the couch, and a fuck ton of plants that must have made the place feel lush when they were alive. There’s a devil’s ivy by a broken window that’s held its own with what little rain water it must get, vines spiraled out across the floor. He thumbs a leaf idly before shoving the window open to seat the pot on the sill. 

The kitchen is tidy and small, and Shane can touch the cabinets on either side without fully extending his arms. He doesn’t bother with the fridge, pockets the salt and pepper and a few other spice bottles because bland food is a curse he’s not willing to accept, and tries the tap to see if the waters clearer up here. It’s slightly better than downstairs though they’d still probably need to boil it before using any and Shane is pleasantly surprised to see the stove still works when he flicks it on. He checks the bathroom next to see if there’s a tub and crows softly when he sees the clawfoot shower combo. The idea of rinsing the car trip from his skin has him feeling downright bubbly before he steps into the bedroom. 

It’s all pale blue and green walls, even more plants and a large bed covered by a seafoam green comforter. A cluster of framed art lines the walls at different heights and Shane stops in front of a photo collage above the dresser. The majority of the polaroids are of two women— one tall and dark skinned with a series of multicolored box braids, the other short and curvy with tan skin like Ryan’s and dark wavy hair that she’s sometimes got her horn rimmed glasses shoved into— on hikes, at the lake, some music festivals, and standing in front of the record shop with twin smiles. He wonders where they are now. Takes in the whole of the apartment again, how organized it is without any open drawers, clothes ripped off hangers in the closet or food gone from the pantry, and concludes they couldn’t have been here at the start. Shane hopes fiercely for them to have made it. Thinks of his and Sara’s apartment back in LA with a homesickness that’s grown familiar. They probably would have gotten along with this couple really well if they’d met under different circumstances, in a different time. 

Sara and Ryan are swaying gently to the back half of the record when Shane returns downstairs. Sara is nestled into the crook of Ryan’s neck, hands loose behind his back and Ryan’s got his eyes closed with a cheek pressing against the tangle of Sara’s curls. Shane wants to start the album over just to keep watching them dance. He settles quietly into an armchair instead, tugging the tupperware of tuna salad closer and using the remaining saltines to scoop it into his mouth. The record is finished by the time he’s done eating so Shane stands to put another on. Sara extracts herself from Ryan’s embrace with a kiss and snags Shane by the wrist, twirling herself into his chest before making like she’s going to dip him. Shane goes willingly, the waltz familiar from how many weddings they’ve attended together, and spins Sara through the aisles to Billie’s crooning on I’ll Be Seeing You. 

“You’re both beautiful,” Ryan sighs when they whirl by, Shane pausing long enough to dip Sara low for Ryan to steal another kiss from his perch on the armrest. She laughs brightly in the tea candles flickering light and runs fingertips across Ryan’s jaw, feather soft. “Straight outta a dream.”

“Nothing straight about us,” Shane says when the song ends and offers a hand to Ryan, Sara slipping from him to sit on the grime covered counter for a better view. Ryan is a good six inches taller than Sara with significantly more muscle mass, and Shane knows first hand how easily Ryan can maneuver his lanky 6 '4 ass around, but Ryan let’s Shane lead with his head tucked below Shane’s chin. They’re both sweaty and covered in dirt from days on the road, and Shane hasn’t danced with Ryan at countless weddings, but they move together here as simply as they do everywhere else. Shane winds them through the dim circle of light, past Sara and back again, managing to stumble over their feet only twice and Ryan laughs each time. He’s the one to dip Shane as the needle lifts at the record’s end and Sara applauds the shocked look on Shane’s face before Ryan leans in to kiss him, still tipped back in his arms. 

“How new and exciting!” Shane grins, kissing Ryan when he’s upright once more and Ryan just can’t help himself because he dips Shane again, even lower this time. Shane’s pretty sure his hair is touching the dingy floor but he doesn’t care because Ryan is looking at him with dark, dark eyes and a dangerous tilt to his smile. It sparks between them, electric along all the places they’re pressed together. 

“Is that the blood running to your head or are you just delighted by all the ways Ryan can manhandle you?” Sara asks from above them, eyes sweeping over the heady flush of Shane’s face. 

“Both.” Shane says because he’s feeling light headed and happy for the first time since they’ve crossed Schamburg’s border. “Definitely both.”

They take turns washing off the gritty layers of dirt in the apartment bathroom upstairs, pots of water heating on the stove throughout the process. Sara makes tea while Ryan changes the sheets on the bed for ones he finds in the hallway closet and Shane uses half a bottle of shampoo to get his hair clean. He considers washing their clothes next but realizes they won't have time to dry fully before they leave in the morning so he skips it. 

Ryan is studying the bookshelves in the living room, Sara curled up on the couch with a book open in her lap and the headlamp on when Shane emerges from the bathroom. His hair is dripping water down to soak the collar of his fresh shirt and he grumbles slightly about how long it’s getting. 

“It’s hot, but I’ll help you cut it if you want.” Ryan offers with a speculative glance, tossing a ceramic bear between his hands. 

“Or I could teach you how to braid it back?” Sara suggests without looking up from her page. Ryan makes a choked sound and Sara grins at him. 

“Hot.” Ryan mutters again and because he’s curious, Shane settles in front of Sara on the floor. Ryan crowds them, leaning forward on the coffee table and watches Sara section out Shane’s hair for two french braids. He and Ryan take turns practicing and by the end of it they can do a decent job though the braids aren’t nearly as tight as when Sara does them. Shane likes the feeling of their fingers carding through his hair more than the tug of the braids against his scalp but he’s into having something else to use to keep it out of his eyes besides bandanas or a bun. 

The bed is just big enough for the three of them and they pile in with Sara in the middle. Shane gets up to check the apartment door one more time and then closes the one to the bedroom as well before finally getting comfortable. 

He dreams about being lost in the woods, Sara and Ryan calling for him through the foliage but every time he thinks he’s getting close, their voices ring out from a different direction. He wanders until he collapses to the damp earth with exhaustion. He’s staring up through the branches when Scott appears above him with a bloodstained smile. Shane has barely said his name before Scott’s surging down to sink his teeth into the expanse of his brother’s throat. 

Shane jerks awake to the sun spilling through the windows across his chest and he lies there shaking, fingers pressed to the skin of his neck, feeling for a bite he knows isn’t there. 

BEFORE

“Wake up, Shane. Shane? _Shane_!” Shane comes to with Ryan’s face inches from his own. He blames the whole existence of zombies for the way he shoots back into the pillows. Ryan’s mouth twitches up at the corners but his eyes remain serious. “Yo. Do you smell smoke?”

Shane rubs a palm over his face and sits up to sniff the air. It does smell like smoke. Or more like the bar on the corner of their old block where people chain smoked at all hours of the night. His nose wrinkles up at the smell and he throws the blankets back to follow Ryan into the living room. Sara snuffles and slides into the warmth of the spot he’s just vacated. The watch on his wrist, still ticking steadily though it’s face now holds a series of small cracks, tells him it’s 2:47 in the morning. It’s a testament to how exhausted everyone must be that no one stirs when the two of them unbolt the door to step onto the porch. 

The air feels thick in Shane’s lungs, dense like the usual fog presiding over the forest but there’s a definite sharpness to it. Cloying and heavy, Shane's thinking of camp fires when Ryan points to the north of the cabin and the skyline above the trees. There are reds and oranges reflecting dimly against the dark grey edges of the night; plumes of smoke dissipating across the treetops. Distantly, Shane can hear the spark and crackle of the flames even if they can’t see them fully yet. 

“Oh for fuck sake.” Shane sighs, gripping the side of the porch railing and craning his neck further to see how far the smoke has spread. 

“We gotta tell the others. We gotta go.” Ryan says and Shane nods, trailing behind him. 

The others wake up easily enough and the cabin comes alive with a flurry of activity. TJ wanders around shutting off the gas and pilot light, tugs down curtains and pushes the furniture to the center of the room; the kind of wildfire prep he must have done before, back when there were actual firefighters to attempt at containing the blaze. Shane sees it when TJ catches himself in the middle of unlocking a window and the look on his face is blank and unreadable. Shane goes to help Jake sort through Kelsey, Devon, and Curly’s cars for anything useful instead of mentioning it. 

Mark siphons gas out of the cars they’ll leave behind with Quinta and Annie’s help. Sara lugs bags to the boots of various cars where Andrew, Steven, and Ryan do their best to rearrange everything into some semblance of order. Adam comes around the corner of the cabin with Micki and Dori on leashes and they hop into the Subaru obligingly when he whistles. Shane knows he or Sara will have to be the ones to get Obi since he’s so damn skittish, but Kate’s already coming out with Obi in her arms when Shane reaches the steps. She smiles, tight at the edges, and manages to get Obi into the car without the dogs escaping. 

It doesn’t hit Shane until he’s sitting in the passenger’s seat of Ryan’s dead parent’s car, the cabin and fires receding behind them, that they’re losing another home. He plucks distractedly at the frayed edges of the artwork Sara made for him. It was the last thing he’d taken from the cabin, door closing with a solid click behind him, and he unrolls it partially to trace over the newest additions of the Worth It crew Sara had completed the day before. She stuck the stick figure drawings to the last page of her sketchbook and Shane understands the sentimentality of it. How impermanent everything feels, here in the apocalypse. They’re all grasping tight at what little remains and Shane doesn’t want to think about how there was no way for them to leave the Colorado group any kind of message. That if the others ever return, it may very well be to a plot of ash and three scorched graves. He can’t decide what would be worse so he turns to Ryan to ask. But when Shane opens his mouth he catches sight of Ryan’s hands shaking against the steering wheel and the question dies on his lips. 

“Ryan...” Shane starts and doesn’t finish. Because words mean very little when they can’t protect you from the dead or allow you to go back home. Ryan keeps his eyes on the road and Shane watches the sea of trees around them swallow the headlights of their little procession; thinks about how some cultures believe in the cleansing power of fire and wishes his sorrow would immolate into something useful. 

He falls asleep at some point and wakes up to Ryan’s hand on his cheek, ocean waves crashing against a beach, and air that is more salt than smoke. Shane is reaching up to cover Ryan’s hand with his own when the car door wrenches open and he feels the cold muzzle of a gun being jammed below his chin. Ryan’s hand slips away and a gruff voice hisses in Shane’s ear over the cacophony of his spiking heart rate. 

“Get out of the fuckin car, mate.”

AFTER

Shane falls back asleep after the nightmare though he doesn’t remember doing so. The bed is empty when he wakes up again and he dresses quickly before pausing in front of the dresser. He snatches the photo of the couple in front of the record shop from it’s little clip and stuffs it into his jacket pocket. Someone’s written in neat block letters on the back: **ASIA AND NOLA 9|3|2016 GRAND OPENING BAYBEE!** Shane feels weird about it, but he wants something concrete to remember this small reprieve they’ve been afforded. A cruel part of his brain whispers that Asia and Nola aren’t alive to miss it but he pushes it down almost immediately. 

Sara’s made coffee in the french press and Ryan shoves a protein bar at him from the other side of the counter. The bags beneath both their eyes look a little less prominent and Shane kisses each of them in spite of his morning breath. Sara has tacked a little doodle of Obi curled around a record player with his purrs forming the words “Thank You” at the top onto the fridge with a magnet. She’s signed their names and date at the bottom, and Shane still doesn’t mention the picture burning a hole in his pocket. They drink their coffee in somewhat tense silence which he chalks up to the uncertainty of what they’ll encounter at his childhood home and then gather their things back into the bags. He lets Sara and Ryan talk him into leaving the victrola for the next weary gang of travelers with only half his usual snark. 

The majority of the undead have wandered away from the security gate but a couple stagger forward from their stupors when it drops back down. Sara brains them as Ryan tosses the bags into the backseat and Shane slides behind the wheel. He’s determined to drive because he doesn’t really trust his voice to manage the instructions without cracking or directing them out of Schamburg all together and when the others don’t say anything, Shane figures they understand. 

He drives on autopilot, streets sliding into even more familiar territory with each turn. It feels like driving home for breaks from college, or the summer he turned fifteen and his father and their neighbor took turns teaching him how to shift gears and come to a proper stop. What seems entirely too soon, Shane turns onto his old block and comes to a stop before the brick facade of his parent’s house. It’s the same red brick and weathered blue he remembers, though all the curtains are closed and the driveway sits empty. The grass is longer than he’s ever seen it and the wildflowers of his mother’s garden lodge a lump high in his throat. He leads Sara and Ryan around to the side gate and down the cobblestone path, stooping to retrieve the key from the pot by the back door. The hinges squeak like they always have and Shane holds his breath for a moment before stepping inside. Sara’s hand on his back is a comforting reminder he isn’t doing this alone. Ryan has barely closed the door behind them when two figures appear in the opposite doorway. One is Scott, a crowbar raised above his head with both hands, their mother directly behind him with a butcher’s knife clenched in her fist. Sherry gets a look at them from around Scott’s hulking frame and her eyes go wide, the hand not grasping the knife flying up to cover her mouth, and promptly bursts into tears. 

“Shane? Oh my god, my baby! Is it really you?” 

Shane is across the kitchen before he properly registers it, babbling _yes_ and _oh god mom_ like he’s Silas’ age instead of 34. He collapses against his mother, Scott hugging them from the side, and he’s pretty sure this is the most tears the Madej’s have ever shed in each others company and he really doesn’t fucking care. Because they’re here and he’s here, and why did he wait so damn long to get to them?

Eventually Sara guides them all to the kitchen table and Ryan makes tea while Scott lobs questions at the three of them. Sherry hasn’t let go of Shane’s hand so he sits close but even then she doesn’t loosen her grip. She’s searching his face like she still can’t believe he’s actually there and Shane’s sure he’s doing the exact same thing. He has been telling himself for so long not to get his hopes up, to be content with not knowing, that his brain feels like it’s short circuiting with the overload of emotions rushing through him. 

“Where’s Dad?” Shane asks shortly after Sherry turns her attention to Sara and Ryan, both of whom she’s always loved and asked after fervently during their weekly phone calls. He sees it when Scott and his mom share a look, hurt settling into their expressions and Shane had known this was all too good to be true. “When?”

“It happened in the beginning,” Scott says, eyes drifting to the table top and his fingers curl tighter around his mug. “The Coppeck’s kid was sick. Tom came around asking for Dad to take a look at them and you know how Dad is.”

Shane does know, can see it clearly. How his dad had always gone out of his way to treat his sons with kindness. How it transferred easily to the children and families he treated at his practice over the years. Schaumburg wasn’t that big of a city and a lot of folks came through Dr Madej’s office over the years. Shane had always admired how his father never forgot a face, even if he used to get jealous about all the people vying for his dad’s attention when he was younger. But Scott and Shane had always been the apple of Mark’s eye, and Shane remembers how proud he’d been of each of them. 

“Art got bit on the way back from school. When we all still thought it was a rabies virus or some shit. They turned so quick. Dad— “ Scott swallows thickly, “Dad kept saying Art was gonna be fine, that they needed more medical attention than he could give on a home visit. He was driving them to his office when it happened. The car was _a mess_ …”

Sherry lets out a small whimper and Shane pulls his mom into another hug even if it doesn’t feel like enough. He thinks he might shake apart if he does anything else. 

“I’m so sorry.” Sara and Ryan say at the same time. Twin expressions of anguish on their faces and Shane doesn’t want remorse. Not when he has part of his family here and Ryan has Jake back in Oregon. Because Sara learned her family didn’t make it from a voicemail that pinged through a month after the phone lines went down and she listened to them screaming so shortly after saying _we love you_ and _we’re safe_. They’re all sorry, all the time, and it won’t change a damn thing. His dad is dead. Shane’ll add his name to the growing list tattooed over his heart and try to continue doing things his father would be proud of. 

“How have you been doing here?” Shane asks, swiping at the wetness gathered on his lashes with his free hand. 

“There’s a group stationed at the community center,” Sherry starts. “They’re all about mutual aid and working to clear the city of the dead section by section. We help when and how we can. It’s been a godsend, honestly.”

“Helps having a sense of purpose and something to feel hopeful about.” Scott nods. “It’s small, but we’re doing more than the supposed safe zones ever did.”

“The military was here?” Ryan’s voice is flat and Shane knows he’s thinking of what happened on the California coast. When they learned how twisted the ex-military could be when there were no more orders to follow. Not that they weren’t fucked up before, but this is just another layer. 

“Briefly.” Sherry replies, her face closing off and it isn’t hard to imagine why. 

“How long are you staying?” Scott breaks the tension and his smile looks nothing like it had in Shane’s dream. “We could introduce you. Show you how we do the whole apocalyptic survival thing here in Schaumburg.”

“I’m sure we could pencil you in.” Sara says and it feels like they’re making plans for brunch rather than agreeing to see the way Shane’s family’s been coping with a zombie outbreak. 

“Cool, cool, cool.” Scott trills as he gets to his feet. “We’ll head out in 20.”

BEFORE

The gun leaves a bruise along the underside of Shane’s jaw. He can feel the dull throb of where the muzzle dug into his flesh and his fingers itch to press against the edges of it. Ryan is a tight line of tension to his right, coiled like a spring and Shane would touch him if he didn’t think it’d cause more trouble. He can’t see Sara’s face from this vantage point in their line up, even with all of his height advantage, but he can hear her. Shane has always loved her outspoken nature but it’s never caused the fear raking claws inside his chest to howl quite like this. 

“This all the weapons then?” One of the guys— most likely the leader from the way the others are flanking him— asks and TJ nods curtly once he’s gingerly placed his rifle on the top of their weapons cache. “Search em. Women first.”

“Don’t fuckin touch me!” Sara’s voice raises an octave as the scavenger men move forward to tug her, Annie, Quinta and Kate out of the line. The guy in front of her just laughs, jostling her with a large hand on the shoulder before he cries out when Sara sinks her teeth into the meat of his wrist. 

“God damn bitch!” He hollers, drawing back and striking Sara across the face. There’s blood from his wound smeared across Sara’s cheek and Shane’s vision tunnels when he lunges forward to try and get to her. 

“Whoa there, big guy.” Leader dude says, moving so quick that Shane doesn’t realize he’s been thrown and pinned to the dirt until he feels a knee digging into his spine. “Take it easy.”

“Get off!” Shane wheezes, struggling uselessly against the weight but it does little to loosen the hold. These guys with their army fatigues and bulk are more equipped than Shane, who suddenly curses the fact he never took Ryan up on those countless invitations to join him at the gym. 

“If you’d just calm down, I’d be happy to.” Comes the nonchalant reply and despite the dirt getting into his mouth and the increasing pressure on his lungs, Shane keeps trying to buck him off. The sharp crack of the gun handle meeting with his cheek bone and temple dazes Shane even before the pain sets in. Above the ringing in his ears he can hear someone screaming and he wonders if it’s him but then Ryan’s shouting registers just as Shane blacks out, white starbursts popping behind his eyelids. 

The chaos is enough of a distraction for TJ and Andrew to reach the weapon pile and snatch up guns. The echo of gunshots is magnified by the cliff face behind them and Shane swims back above the surface of consciousness to see the two soldiers pointing AK-47’s at them drop to the ground. Gunfire and screams intermingle and Shane feels hands dragging him up into a crouching position behind one of the cars. His vision dims in and out of focus and he retches violently off to the side. He doesn’t know whose firing or whose down, just that they’re likely drawing some undead attention their way. Not to mention the two dead soldiers who could be back up in a matter of minutes. A new wave of screams followed by rabid snarling reaches Shane in the same moment he registers the person next to him as Mark. He’s clutching a bloodied knitting needle and Shane doesn’t have time to ask whose blood it is before one of the reanimated soldiers careens around the car and smashes into Mark. 

Shane fumbles sluggishly for the knife in his boot. He has yet to be fast enough in this apocalypse and it’s cost him more than he knows how to put into words. The furious ache of it surges up with the rush of adrenaline, enough to override the debilitating pain radiating from where the pistol connected with his skull. He scrambles to Mark on shaking limbs and drives the knife hard into the base of the dead soldier’s head. The body slumps forward like a deflated balloon and Shane vomits again when he shoves the form aside to reveal Mark gasping wetly through the ruined expanse of his throat. 

“Nono _no_.” Shane chants, pressing at the mangled flesh like it’ll make a difference. Mark grips weakly at Shane’s wrist, his eyes dark and pained, but determined. He coughs, a stream of blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth, and tightens his hold to draw Shane’s knife up to his temple. Mark nods once, pleading evident in his stare and Shane hasn’t done this yet. He hasn’t killed anyone before the virus took hold and now Mark is asking him to do it because he’s too weak to do it himself. Shane lets out a broken sob, animalistic and miserable, moving one hand to cradle the side of Mark’s face before thrusting the knife forward with the other. Mark goes ragdoll limp, the dark crimson of his blood staining a halo around his head. The third time Shane heaves, his stomach has nothing left to give. 

They lose Annie too. A rogue bullet from the shootout caught her in the chest; another from TJ’s gun takes her before the virus can. Adam cries into the blood drenched fabric of her sweatshirt, looking impossibly small for the amount of grief spilling from his mouth. He doesn’t want to let her go, Andrew and Steven’s hands on his back doing little to calm him. Shane stares unseeing at the motionless bodies dotting the sand. There’s so much blood, seeping into the grainy dirt and the knees of his jeans where he’s hunched over, that he doesn’t believe the ocean waves will ever wash it away. This feels insurmountable— like the place where he could lay down and die, let the tide take him and leave the blood behind. 

  
_Fucking soldiers_. All that shit about being the best and the bravest and they were nothing more than scum. _Dead scum_ , he thinks viciously but it’s fleeting. Because Mark and Annie are dead too and Shane realizes now that they’ll never stop losing people. He’s seen the movies, he knows the screenplay queues. The world is even more hopeless than before and no one is going to save them. This encounter has proven it beyond a doubt; they are totally and completely on their own.

**Author's Note:**

> Sneak up on me at juliangohome.tumblr.com


End file.
